


When Words Fail

by Le_Noir (Psycho_Chiquita)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: ...DEEPER, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Dad!Jim and Dad!Oswald, Heavy Hungarian Influence, M/M, Piano, Woops, a mother's love, and also sitting too long on a toilet, divergence off of Episode: s04e22 No Man's Land, explanation in the notes, just dig deep, there's fluff somewhere sprinkled in-between the mess of angst in here i promise, this all spiraled off the one scene in s01e16, this was supposed to be for the Gobblepot week 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 22:01:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18107339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psycho_Chiquita/pseuds/Le_Noir
Summary: Oswald Cobblepot is a man of passionate expression, always vocal and rarely without bite; and yet there are moments few and far between where he finds himself incapable of putting his emotions into words.





	When Words Fail

**Author's Note:**

> So i promised cake and here is cake but somewhere between mixing the batter and baking it I mistook the salt for the sugar.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> So here's salty cake.
> 
> You're _welcome._

When he thinks of his mother, he thinks of the million little ways she said “I love you”.

 

He thinks of her softly whispering “ _tente, baba, tente_ 1,” while cradling him on her lap as she wiped away his tears, his school uniform in a disarray and his backpack missing a strap once again.

 

“Don’t give drinks to the little mice, hush now my sweet boy2,” she would murmur while rocking them both on her recliner, massaging his bruised knees and kissing the scrapes on his knuckles.

 

He thinks of the time he’d been in bed for the better half of a week, buried up to his nose in quilted blankets and embroidered pillows to block out the winter chill that had the city in a choke-hold. With his fever pitched high his mother crowded the side of their bed with a bowl of warm csontleves3 on her lap, slowly spooning him the clear noodle broth as she murmured into the restless howling of the winter wind.

 

 _“a szemedets hunyd, be",_ she sang, her words soothing against the ache in his body as he gave in to the comforting call of slumber.

 

He reminisces of his first day of work. _Legal_  work. Having left in a rather upset state after watching his mother dig through their diminutive home for any spare coins, making it an objective to ensure she never had to scour for loose change ever again.

 

Coming home with leftovers and a humble flush as he held up a roll of his income, his mother standing at the edge of their folding card table with beaming pride as she set down the celebration pastry she bought him with the last of her coinage.

 

_Aludj, ingó-bingó_

 

The look on her face when he uncovered her eyes to her own room, her own vanity. The same look she had when Oswald showed her his club.  
_His._

 

_Kicsi, rózsabimbó._

 

He remembers being stretched across their camelback sofa with her hand brushing through his raven hair, the slow drag of her sharp nails tracing dreams against his scalp.

  
_Alszik az, ibolya_

 

He’ll never forget what it felt like to hold her one last time.

 

_Csicsíja, babája._

* * *

 

It’s meant to be quick, when he stops by his old apartment to collect a few items. He storms through the front door with no intention of doing anything else but rummaging through his bedroom and collecting a few items from his stashed weapons cache. It isn’t until he steps back into the living room that he finally takes in a long hard look and the impact of the day wrecks him.

 

The delicate laced curtains hanging throughout the rooms that she had picked especially for the apartment after they first moved in. The Victorian cabriole that sits in front of the open window she preferred to read on during rainy days. The gramophone player against the wall where the Jack Little record she danced to rests, needle poised over it in anticipation to continue where it was left off.

 

His mother’s home.

 

He sets his jaw as his eyes land on everything he fought to build up, all of it viciously ripped from underneath him. He stares until he’s no longer seeing, his vision threatening to cloud over when his eyes glance over the dark shadow against the wall shrouded under silk and velvet.

 

He limps forward, deliberately slow drags of his foot the only sound in the vacant unit until he brings himself to stand in front of the cloaked corner and just stops. Throwing the fabric over with suddenness, he stares at the instrument made of ivory and wood as a heavy hurt constricts his chest, griping tightly over his heart.

 

His fingers hover over the keys, a ghost of a long abandoned melody beckoning his hands to flutter with ache.

 

His mind blanks out and his body finds its rationale by closing a fist and slamming down onto the piano, a strangled cry ripped from his throat.

 

He will make them pay, the lot of them.

 

* * *

 

It’s been weeks since he’s seen the outside. He never intended to make it this far, never intended to make it far at all once he had Galavan on the right end of his shotgun. But it all went to shit, of course it did, and he spends his days moping under the covers of god knows where with the loon who stabbed him with a needle full of hell knows  _what_ wishing he was anywhere but, well, here.

 

And for a second he wishes he was anyone else, and then maybe he wouldn’t have been so weak. Maybe his mother would still be alive. Maybe he wouldn’t have to deal with the needling questions, or riddles; whatever the hell the tall one insists on calling them.

 

He stares at the piano that had awoken him from the dreams of his youth, hesitation holding him back as he swallows down the pill of a memory.

 

Maybe Nygma is right. Maybe all he needed was to free himself of that which could hold him down. A man with nothing that he loves is a man that cannot be bargained or betrayed. He shoves aside the pain his mother’s memory brings him, but he can see now that without love, he can take back Gotham with obstinate resolution. He can make it all his again. And he won’t be alone this time.

* * *

 

If only he reevaluated Edward’s advice when it came to Isabella, he thinks, as the warmth of his blood slips through his fingers and the cold of the harbor’s waters engulf him one last time.

 

* * *

 

“You’re not going to learn much by keeping yourself at a distance.”

 

The sudden pause of the piano followed by the sharp remark startled the young boy, as far as Oswald can tell when he finally looks over his shoulder towards the entrance. A small grin of smug satisfaction spreads on his face as he looks on towards the curious eyes that watch him from afar.

 

“Martin, here. Come,” he beckons the boy with a wave of his hand, moving aside and patting the space he made on the bench he’s sitting on. His smile cuts into his cheeks just a little further when Martin shuffles his way over the hardwood floor and slower still when he nears the ornamental rug the piano rests atop of. He hesitates to step any closer once he reaches the edge.  
  
Oswald stares back at Martin with patience, his hands crossed over his folded knees as he stays fixed on his spot on the bench.

 

“Did you like it?”

 

Martin nods, looking up through his lashes towards Oswald with his chin tucking into chest. He reaches for the notepad hanging off his neck to write off a quick message into the paper, turning the booklet over for Oswald to read.

 

_It sounds very pretty_

 

Oswald smiles with modesty, bowing his head slightly in thanks to the boy’s compliment.“Well,” he proceeds to ask with a raised brow, hand pointing towards the open keyboard. “Would you like to learn how to play?”

 

Martin nods quickly, Oswald thinking for a second he might end up hurting himself from the furious nodding of his small head.

 

“You’re gonna have to get closer than that,” he jests towards the boy, scooting himself aside the bench once more to clear a seat next to himself. Martin stays in place, his hands fidgeting with the booklet as his eyes dart around the room before landing solidly on Oswald’s hands resting on the keys once more.

 

“If there’s anything I’ve learned from picking up my information-” Oswald says as he straightens out his back and locks his elbows- “is that one must get up close and personal to get what they want,” he continues over his shoulder, his hands dancing their path across the board.

 

He starts from the top, his left hand bouncing back and forth between the notes, striking three at a time as he brings the song close to the duet and starts the primo off with his right hand.

  
  
”Heart and Song,” Oswald smiles over the melodic chime. “First song my _Anya_ _ _5__ had me learn on the piano.”

 

Martin shuffles closer, his curiosity making the best of him as he edges towards the bench, his head tilted back and his eyes locked in on the hypnotic trance Oswald’s fingers have set. He bumps onto the edge of the bench and doesn’t realize he’s automatically sitting himself down, even when Oswald looks over and chuckles while slowly halting his movements.

  
”Don’t ever worry about anyone noticing how close you allow yourself to get, sometimes one is blind to what is right in front of them,” he tells Martin, leaning into his shoulder to help him position his small hands on the ivory keys.

 

Martin looks up to him with wide brown eyes, a slow nod of his head in understanding.

 

“Here,” Oswald raises his hands to the piano, and Martin raises his head to look over more closely. “Follow my movements.”

 

He rounds the song off to loop from the beginning again, only playing with his left hand this time as he leaves the other half open for Martin to jump in.

 

“Ready?” he asks, nodding his head towards the keys for Martin to follow.

 

He observes as the boy gingerly presses down on the keys, his little fingers barely able to stretch far enough to make the jump between C and G, but when he transitions between the keys and even hitting A without a hitch he turns to Oswald with a smile so bright it’s no wonder to him that he hasn’t had a dark day since picking Martin up from the orphanage.

 

And it’s at that moment that Oswald’s own smile falters, because he suddenly realizes with heartbreaking clarity that he loves the boy. Very, _very_ much so. He’s not sure what to do with the revelation, other than panic, because he’s painfully aware of his luck when it comes to the people he loves.

 

He shoves the feeling down as he watches his little boy trying to keep up with his half of the song, pushes his heart deep where it can’t easily resurface on its own, and knows that there will come a time he’s going to have to face the fact that these feelings exist and make them go away for good. But for now he’ll pretend they’re not there, he’ll hold on to Martin as long as he can and see this false reality to the bitter end.

 

Besides, acknowledging it would only hurt Oswald more in the end.

* * *

 

All is quiet in his father’s manor, save for the occasional strike of a piano chord by the hammer. It’s taken years for him to claim his place in Gotham, and even longer for him to find his peace after the bridges had fallen.

 

He leans onto the keyboard with languorous care, a glass nearly voided of its amber contents sitting on the edge of the piano’s closed lid.

 

There’s not much thought going into the little finger prick movements he taps the keys with. More of a menial activity to exert the last of his pent up energy before falling to bed for another solitary night.

 

One of the keys he strikes hits a sour note and he stares at the offending instrument with distaste. He slunks his hand towards the glass for another drink with full intention of limiting it to sips, but ends up sluggishly tossing the rest of the spirit down.

  
  
He sets the emptied glass back down onto the ring of condensation it left behind on the wooden lid, a crisp _snap_  of crystal on wood ringing through the room as he stares down to his hands hovering over the ivory keys, fingers flared and ready in position.

  
  
He’s angry. He’s also somnolent. But he manages to find enough energy to breathe life into the musical instrument and sway his hands across the board to create a tune.

 

It’s slow going at first, with the emptiness inside he does nothing more than rest his notes at grave4 for the first few measures. He tries to think of anything but the nothing that stretches behind his closed eyelids, and finds warmth.

 

Steadily it comes out of him, a delicate lento that whispers of longing and loneliness, the hints of his parents love floating in the air that surround him. He rocks his head and straightens his back to allow his arms to flow in a languid rhythm.

 

Until, that is, he feels the stab of betrayal worm its way through his body, the sharpness of heartbreak that settles deep in his chest and shoots down his arms. He’s helpless to the feeling and does nothing more than let it out.

 

His fingers fly at that point, becoming nothing more than a painful blur as he hammers out an allegro that is everything but happy. He plays faster and harsher into the notes with the threat of lunging off the keyboard itself until a rapt knock across the room halts his movements so fast his hands clash together.

 

He sputters for a moment and digs his nails into his palms to cut off the murderous rage tempting to crawl back out again. He gives into a deep sigh that stretches him with release, too tired to care anyhow. With a raised brow he gives a pointed look towards the distraction to find Olga standing aside the entryway, clearing a path for none other than Jim Gordon.

 

It shouldn’t surprise Oswald in any way that Jim would make a visit so late into the evening, and yet he still can’t help the look crossing his face as he raises himself off the bench to greet his guest openly.

 

“Jim, my dear old friend. What brings you to the manor at such an hour?”

 

He steps within arms reach of Oswald, eyeing the piano with relaxed incredulity. “I didn’t know you played.”

 

Oswald can’t help the deep chuckle that rumbles in the back of his throat. “Even after all these years there are still many things we have yet to learn from one another,” he responds with a minute lean towards Jim and a warm smile. He waves a hand in the direction of the nearest seat for the former detective to submerse himself into as he turns on his good heel towards the cocktail cabinet, snatching his glass off the piano with deft hands before Jim has the opportunity to decline. As if he ever has before.

 

“It just took me by surprise, is all. From the many times I’ve seen that thing I don’t think I can recall you ever being anywhere _near_  it,“ he hears Jim say from behind him as he pours himself a generous measure, careful consideration into the serving he prepares for them both.

 

He doesn’t bother to look past his shoulder when he speaks over it. “Not everything that is solid fact has to happen in your presence, Jim, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

 

He hears Jim sigh and the telltale sound of a shift in the couch cushions. ”You’re right, that’s more your thing.”

 

The infrequent drop-ins Jim has provided over time has softened his edges, allowing him to be more open to the occasional jabs and playful nature of their banter lately. There’s a comfort to the familiar, he thinks over with fondness, until his smile dissipates entirely when he turns to the sight of Jim observing his mother’s quilted pillow; one of many strewn across the room resting against his father’s various furniture pieces.

 

Jim stares down the patchwork of fabric with objective curiosity, a finger lazily tracing the embroidered floral design his mother had lovingly worked into the stitching, and Oswald finds the silence deafening.

 

“Why are you here Jim.”

 

Jim blinks up at him, a muted quirk of his lips the only response to the question before he completely ignores it.

 

“There was this thing, I noticed after a while with the people I surrounded myself with. There always had to be something different about them than me. With Harvey it’s how bullheaded he could be when doing things that he considered was in the city’s best interest. Lucius is smart in ways that I’m, not-,” Jim wavers with a slight lack in confidence, and Oswald teases a breath of a laugh at Jim’s brutal self honesty.

 

He lifts himself off from where he’s been leaning against the bar counter with both drinks in hand, captivated with the soft look Jim gives the pillow he’s holding as he flips it over and back to study the fabric. Oswald is grateful the lush carpeting muffles the gentle drag of his foot as he makes his way back to Jim, wanting to share the moment of appreciating his family’s belongings with him.

  
Oswald had dragged everything and anything he could haul over from his hidden storage into his father’s mansion, the history of his mother’s colorful old world memories colliding full force with the muted aristocracy his father’s style carried. As lost as they were to each other during their lives, Oswald felt he needed to bring them back together again, if only in memory.

  
“It’s funny, the way things look like they don’t belong together, like they shouldn’t be able to work together but they do, with all the ways that they could possibly differ somehow they do.”

 

Jim smooths out the quilted pillow, places it gently onto the couch with a light pat of his palm to gently fluff the stuffing out. The harshly vibrant coloring of the eclectic patchwork clashes against the deep richness of the red velvet that cloaks the vintage settee, and Oswald wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

With a graceful drop into the couch he hands Jim his drink, takes a swallow from his own glass. “Your point being?” he says into the silence that fills the room, tugging his end of the string of whatever cat’s cradle they’ve somehow entangled themselves into.

 

There isn’t much of a pause between them before Jim opens his mouth again. “Can’t I just make a house-call every once in a while?” he asks with innocent eyes.

 

“I never took you for one to make social visits,” Oswald sniffs.

 

Jim quirks an eyebrow, tilts his head and his glass towards Oswald with an air of amusement.”I guess you have things to learn about me, too.”

 

Oswald gives a nervous chuckle, raises his glass to meet Jim’s, and brings the drink to his lips quickly before the commissioner can see the smile he struggles to hide.

 

Propriety be damned, he can blame the blush on the alcohol. With rare moments to share with the almighty Jim Gordon, let alone someone tolerable Oswald doesn’t feel like stabbing every few minutes, he takes what he can get if Jim himself is willing to give.

 

What he doesn’t realize until much, much later, is that when given the chance, Jim gives his all. 

* * *

 

The moon is high in the sky by the time Oswald rounds his kids into the sitting room to digest their dinner, a colored tinge to their cheeks as they burn through their shared fever.

 

They huddle against each other under the collective warmth of the heavy quilted blanket as they stretch themselves out on the settee. There’s a gentle murmuring in the air as Jim tucks them in and ruffles a hand through their hair, leaves with a promise of returning with spiced cookies and warm mugs. The moment he clears the doorway they turn their attention to Oswald with wide eyes clouded over in ailment.

 

He runs his own hands over their heads, his own soft spoken voice soothing them from their fever high as he thinks of a way to comfort them. He’s surprised to find his mother’s voice humming in the far reaches of his mind, the sensation of his father’s warm embrace fresh in his memory. The words he searches for stick in his throat and instead he leans forward to place a kiss on each of their pale foreheads.

 

He makes a show of straightening himself up and gives them a reassuring smile. Turns towards the piano that sits opposite them in the grand room.

 

“What’re you gonna play, poppa?” his daughter asks, her copper locks shifting around her head as she lifts herself out of the enveloping warmth the quilt provided.

 

“Something your _Nagyanya_ 5 used to sing for me when I had trouble sleeping a long-, a long time ago,” he responds slowly in kind, a gentle smile tugging the corner of his lips.

 

Both of his children burrow their brows in a curious glance, and Oswald puts on a face of offence. “Unless…, unless you don’t want me to-” he adds apprehensively as he turns away from the instrument. The kids quickly refute and beg for him to stay, Barbara ushering quick cut-off whines while Martin helplessly bounces in his seat and nods his head.

 

 _Please,_  he signs, his right hand furiously circling clockwise over his chest.

 

After a dramatically pensive pause, Oswald finally says “Alright,” nodding dubiously with a shrug of his shoulder and trying his damndest to bite back a smile. He knows they can see it, and he knows they’re beaming with excitement behind his back once he finally turns back around. But the moment he fully sits himself on the bench he feels the demon of hesitation coil around him.

 

His fingers sit on the ivory for a split second, fear blanking out his mind as he dies a little in the doubt of recalling the melody of his childhood past. But it comes to him, as it always does, and his hands dance on their own volition to the tune of a [fractured memory.](https://youtu.be/XajlyITDudE)

 

The words of his mother’s lullaby are far from his ears, but close to his heart.

 

He doesn’t look up to his children, as sure as he is that they’re curiously staring at him with heavy lidded eyes, and instead focuses on his movements as he lets her spirit flow through the piano one more time. The song that had once rocked him to sleep drifts delicately between nodding heads on velvet upholstery, the crackling of firewood the only accompanying sound in the euphony of the sitting room.

 

He doesn’t realize he’s repeated the entire verse for the eighth time in a row until strong arms wrap around his shoulders and bring him to a slow halt. He also doesn’t realize his eyes are swollen red and his cheeks are tear stained until soft hands rub delicate circles to chase them away.

 

A tender kiss is pressed against his temple and his hair flattens under the mercy of gentle lips. He leans into it until it’s not enough, until his hands leave the keys and find their way to tangle into the back of Jim’s shirt without finesse and he shoves his face into the flat of his chest . Until he’s shaking under the overwhelming emotion that floods through him and he shorts himself out of breath. Until Jim grabs a hold of his shoulders and kneels in front of him, hands on each side of his face as he tells him to _breathe Oswald, breathe; you're okay,_ ** **we’re**** _okay_.

 

“Y-you, don’t know how much I-, how-” is all he manages to say before the shaking takes over again, his lips quivering as he tries and fails to hold in another sob. Jim curls his arm in to bring Oswald to his chest again, cups a hand over his raven hair and rests his chin over his head. “Shh-shh. I know, I know it’s okay, it’s okay.”

 

He grasps at Jim’s shoulders, his voice suffocated by the hushed cries he strains to hold in lest he wakes their kids up; sprawled across the couch cushions deep in the slumber of sickness. He wants to tell him, he desperately _needs_  to, but he can’t find his voice.

 

_This. The kids. Us. You. It’s been you, it’s **always** been you._

 

He claws at Jim’s back with anguish as nonsensical babble spills from his mouth, the smothered cries of _I love you_  blurred between bouts of gasps and hiccups. There is so much built up inside him it feels like he’s dying, but Jim grounds him, rocks him back to them. To now.

 

“Hush, baby. You don’t have to tell me, I hear you loud and clear.”

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **When Words Fail, Music Speaks- _Hans Christian Andersen_**  
>     
> also;  
>  _I love you more than I have ever found a way to say to you._  
>   
> 
> Turns out it takes a solid month to get over sleep deprivation. Go figure.  
> *types this at three in the freaking morning, this dumbass****
> 
> So, as the tags state, I was sitting too long in the downstairs half bath that my mother in law recently renovated. She placed a framed quote squat opposite the toilet, so I stare at this thing anytime I gotta sit longer than three seconds.  
> One day I finally pay attention to it, and it's a music quote. And everyone who knows me knows I live by the music. Heavily. ~~I have songfics for crying out loud~~
> 
> The end scene, as much as it is my piece de resistance, originally went much, _much_ differently (Barbara was an infant and Oswald was struggling to play the piano with her in his arms) but I physically injured myself with the sweetness overdose that I changed it to the final scene. I also felt like the timeline slipped if I went with the other idea, seeing as Martin would be older at that point.  
> Maybe I'll eventually post it elsewhere, as its own individual scene since I still have scraps of it on a blank file.  
> Sometimes I read it when I need more sof in my day ._.  
>  
> 
> 1;“Hungarian lullaby”,which lyrics goes as follow;  
> Sleep, baby, sleep,  
> Close your eyes.  
> Sleep, tilting-lilting  
> Little rose bud.  
> The violet is sleeping,  
> Sleep, baby.
> 
> 2;"(why are you) Giving drinks to the mice” is a Hungarian expression often asked to children who are crying.
> 
> 3;Csontleves (chon-tleh-vesh) broth soup, sometimes prepared reminiscent to the style of chicken noodle.
> 
> 4;Grave, 20 bpm. Slow. Ridiculously slow beat. You don’t even breathe at this speed it’s so slow. I mean, you do, it’ll just drive you crazy.  
> Lento, 40-60 bpm. Alright now we’re talking. Still slower than a resting heartbeat (mine is at 74 right now)(or am I just fat?) but we’re getting somewhere.  
> Allegro, 120-168 bpm. Don’t ever make me walk at this speed unless you’re looking to impersonate Scarface, and I’m not talking about Pacino. However, Allegro is Italian for cheerful, lively, gay, which is ironically the opposite of a lot of songs done to the tempo.
> 
> 5;Anya, Nagyanya; Mother and grandmother, respectively.  
>    
> Also to ~~my husband~~ that one person asking me if anyone ever places Gertrud in a bad light,  
>  **NO** and don't you **DARE** ever make the assumption of sweet birbs momma SHE's an _ANGEL_ so _help ME-_  
>  -L.P.


End file.
